


Involuntary Accomplice

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Friendship, Grif on the doomed colony, Humor, Pre-Series, Set in Basic, Severe guilt trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 08:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8742085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Private Dick Simmons is making a name of himself in Basic Training. Well, he’s been given names. Plural. And they may not all be friendly. But teasing among bunkmates is just to be expected. Point still is, he has been trusted with patrolling the camp at night. Which also solves the problem that his bunkmates keep locking him out of their room. Friendly teasing getting a bit out of hand.
With this new responsibility, he has been given a whole new chance to impress his superiors. And the job is pretty simple. There is no way it could go wrong.
Well, of course there is this annoying, lazy, fellow private that is set on escaping the camp only with the help of a plastic spoon and his idiotic stubbornness.
Nothing that Private Dick Simmons can’t handle.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve always liked the part in the RvB Ultimate Fan Guide that says Grif was stationed on another planet before Blood Gulch, and his entire base was wiped out by aliens, leaving Grif as the only survivor due to his sleeping abilities leading everyone to think that he was KIA. So I figured I would do something with that knowledge. Enjoy.
> 
> So this fic ignores season 14, and stick with the doomed colony backstory.

Private Richard “Dick” Simmons was climbing the ranks.

Okay, so maybe it was not that literally. He had not exactly been promoted – yet. It could happen, if he managed excel himself. And now he had been given the opportunity to do exactly so. To be honest, spending his night on patrol was probably not the most fancy duty, and Simmons would be lying if he said his eyelids did not feel heavy. But then he straightened out his back and remembered what an honor it was to be chosen out of all the privates in his squad.

Well, maybe it was not that much of a surprise, since he had been volunteering for the duty even before they began asking for a willing man for the job. Simmons knew how to make himself indispensable, and so he was willing to stay awake in order to prove that keeping the camp safe also meant the camp would be quiet, which would give the soldiers a more peaceful sleep and that would definitely show on the training results. At least, that was Simmons theory. But he had facts to back it up, so now he just needed to see his theory in practice.

Who knew – maybe this would earn him the promotion of Private First Class Dick Simmons. Or maybe a gold star sticker. Or just some Drill Sergeant’s praise that Simmons could remember the lonely nights when he had been forced to sleep in the locker room while imaging his bunkmates laughing at him in their soft beds.

That was the good thing about night patrol. Now he had no reason to return to his bunk which always included the risk of a locked door. He was surrounded by immature, childish soldiers who would do anything to gain a laugh in their stressful, tiring workday – Simmons could understand that since doing push-ups and running laps rarely improved anyone’s mood (though Simmons would fulfill his duties with a smile, of course) and the need for something fun was only natural.

Fact still was that locking out bunkmates was not fun, but cruel, and every mature soldier should know that.

Simmons breathed in deeply and looked at his clock in the corner of his helmet. It was a bit more than 2 AM, meaning he still had hours before he could attempt to return his bed. But Simmons had a job to fulfill, so he adjusted his grip on his rifle and straightened out his back, and with long steps he began to march down the hall.

His pace was rather quick since he had no desire of hanging around. Everyone had gone to bed at this point (and if not, Simmons would make sure they did), leaving Simmons alone in the darkened camp, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

To be honest, Simmons was not exactly planning on anyone breaking the rules. That was what made his job so simple. March around, look confident, and at some point someone had to notice his extra work for the camp’s safety.

So when he suddenly noticed suspicious noise coming from the mess hall, Simmons froze and choked on a surprised squeal. Slowly raising his weapon, he crouched and began to sneak towards the doorway of the hall.

He had obviously closed in on the culprit unnoticed, since the noise never halted, not even when Simmons peeked into the hall. There was no one in the actual hall and the tables and chairs were untouched. As Simmons moved further into the room, he realized the noise was coming from the kitchen area.

Just when he was about to push the swing door open, Simmons realized he probably shouldn’t prepare himself to shoot the intruder. Chances were it as a fellow private who was breaking the rules, and Simmons could handle that. He had even been trusted with a special, labelled card that would prove that he was indeed on night patrol and therefor had authority over his fellow privates.

And once he had been promoted to Private First Class, he wouldn’t even need his card.

Lowering his rifle, Simmons tried to ignore the fact that the noises sounded much like a thief ravaging through a room in order to find something valuable. Because what could possibly be valuable in the food storage?

That was where the noise was coming from, Simmons realized, and after breathing in deeply, he slammed the door open and revealed himself.

The culprit was indeed a fellow private, and even though Simmons had never talked with him before, he recognized the orange armor as the soldier who had once tried to escape their simulated attack exercise by placing his empty armor on the ground in a position that indicated he was either sleeping or dead, while the actual soldier had been taking a nap in his bed. Once their Drill Sergeant had realized he had not actually lost a man during the training exercise, he had made the solder run laps around the camp until he collapsed.

According to the privates that had stayed around to watch the scene, it had not taken long before the Drill Sergeant had achieved his goal. The orange soldier had collapsed even before he had finished one lap.

But that had not satisfied their superior and the punishment had lasted the entire evening. According to the crowd that had gathered, the reason was mainly because the soldier had been slow as fuck.

And now said soldier was apparently raiding the food storage. Simmons wondered what kind of punishment their Drill Sergeant would find fitting for this sort of rule breaking.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Simmons asked, trying to make his voice sound intimidating. Maybe it worked or maybe it was just the sheer surprise of someone sneaking up on him, but no matter what the cause was, the orange soldier jumped, bumping his head against a metal shelf and dropping the package he had been holding.

Taking a step further into the storage to get a better look, Simmons realized it was box of sugary cereal.

The orange soldier was cursing loudly, rubbing his head even though his helmet must have taken most of the impact. “What the fuck, dude?”

“That’s what I am asking,” Simmons muttered, looking distastefully at the mess the private had created. The floor was scattered with packages and different kinds of fruit and vegetables, and Simmons seriously doubted the orange soldier was going to clean up after himself. Clearing his throat, he tried to act with the authority he had been given. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Jesus Christ, don’t fucking shoot me!” the soldier exclaimed, actually raising his hands in the air before he suddenly seemed to change his mind and grab the package of breakfast instead, holding it like a shield. “We can share if you want. Like, 70/40, since I was the one who broke the lock.”

Simmons realized he had unconsciously been pointing his weapon at the orange soldier, and after the realization he quickly lowered his rifle. “What? No, I have the _right_ to be here.” He made sure to put emphasis on the word, and he had to keep himself from pulling out his card to show the private how true his words were. “Also, 70/40 is mathematically impossible.”

“So, what – you’re like the chef slash mathematician of this hell hole?” The orange dude was picking himself up from the floor, still keeping a grip on the pack of cereal.

Simmons placed his rifle on his back, fumbling to find his card now when the question had been asked. “No, I’m the guard on the night patrol, and this area is off limit.”

“ _Guard_?” the soldier snorted. “Yeah, right. I know who you are now – you’re the kissass.”

There was so much distaste in his voice, that Simmons almost dropped the card he was currently holding in front of the soldier’s visor. “Wha – I’m Private Simmons –“

Orange nodded. “The kissass.”

Biting down his frustration, Simmons continued though his voice was strained, “And I have the authority to escort you back to your room.”

“Look, I’m not trying to cause any trouble here,” Orange said, but Simmons noticed how he casually reached for the black bag that had been lying on the floor and a second later, the box of cereal had disappeared into it. Judging from the edgy shapes protruding from inside the bag, he had already managed to stow away more snacks before Simmons caught him.

He waved his rifle towards the stolen goods as he asked, “You’re bringing food to your dorm’s party or what?”

Orange froze, hesitating for a second before he suddenly began to nod in big motions. “Yeah. Lost a bet. It sucks.”

“Wait, there’s a party going on?!” Simmons shrieked, his voice so loud that the other man flinched. Not like he had anything to fear now – he had already been caught. But if Simmons could break up a party, he would have shown how his eagerness to volunteer had improved the safety of the camp. This was bigger than some guy breaking into the food storage.

Tilting his head, Orange said, “Sure. So, if I help you bust them, you’ll just let me go?”

“Well, you have broken the rules by violating the curfew, not to mention the fact that you’ve picked the lock of one of the camp’s facilities, but –“

“I promise I’ll _never_ ever rob this canteen again,” Orange Dude said, very firmly, like he had signed a contract. After a snort, he also added, “Hell, I’ll never even step a foot inside of it again.”

“No need to be rash.” Simmons frowned – the guy who he had deemed a troublemaker only a minute ago now seemed very eager to make up for his mistake. Maybe Simmons had been wrong about him – after all, the rumors that his teammates shared about himself were not as kind as Simmons would have wished for, so maybe it was the same deal with Orange. “I mean, we’re all supposed to show up at 6.00 AM for breakfast, you included.”

“Must be tough staying up all night like this.” Orange scratched the back of his neck. “Like just how long have you been patrolling by now?”

And now he even seemed to be appreciating Simmons’ work. Simmons mentally slapped himself – he, of all people, should be the last one to judge people only on rumors. He straightened out his back, trying to look less tired than he actually felt. “Oh, you know… Just four hours. It’s nothing. Or, well, it’s definitely something, but, you know, nothing I can’t handle.”

“Right,” the other private said, a bit quickly. “Must be tough work. Like, how many times have you marched around this camp?”

“Just 12 times.” Simmons tried to flick some invisible dirt from his armor-covered fingers.  “It’s nothing really.”

Orange whistled, obviously impressed. Not like he had a reason not to be. “You’re fast. That’s like… how many times an hour? I suck at math.”

“Three times. So my round takes twenty minutes, which I am sure is quite faster than most could do it. Not that it affects the quality of my patrol or anything.”

“Impressive,” Orange praised him while shifting his feet. “Twenty minutes to get around the base, huh? Good to know.” His head suddenly jerked upwards so he was staring directly at Simmons. “Talking about speed, you really should get going if they want to catch them. I was pretty slow, and the party has to die out at some point.”

Simmons had almost forgotten about that. Blinking rapidly, he stuttered, “Oh. Right. I’d- I’d better get- Do you know-“

“Dorm D17,” Orange replied immediately. “Don’t wait for me. I’d just clean this mess up and head back. Not like I want to hang out with those guys ever again.”

Simmons considered it for a moment. While the guy had not exactly made the best first impression, he had seemed to realize his faults. In fact he was already down on the floor right now, picking up some clearly bruised apples, slowly lifting them towards the shelf. As he did so, he looked over his shoulder to glance expectantly at Simmons.

Well, Orange had praised Simmons and he had instantly been willing to help bust his friends – or, well, not exactly friends. At least Simmons was not the only one having troubles creating friendships.

“I, uhm… I guess I could let you go with a warning. Just make sure no one can see that you’ve been here.”

“You got it, dude,” Orange replied, though a bit flatly. But it was the middle of the night, and the lack of energy was only to be expected.

Shifting the weight from one foot to the other, Simmons considered his options again. This was not exactly following protocol, but if no one found out about it…

“Alright. I’ll see you another time then.”

Orange had left the ground to place something on a higher shelf, and before Simmons could leave, a heavy hand was suddenly placed on his shoulder, pulling him closer, before patting him on the back in an appreciative manner.  “Thanks, man,” he said before stepping backwards and kneeling down to fix the rest of the mess he had created.

The gesture left Simmons speechless for a moment since it was not often that people truly thanked him, but then he immediately raced off to one of the other buildings to find Dorm D17. The task itself should be pretty simple.

Follow the noise of the party.

Except there was no sound of music or talking or laughing or anything.

So Simmons followed the signs that told him he had reached Dorm D14, D15, D16.

And then Simmons reached a dead-end.

He stood there for a minute, staring at the metal wall and wondering how this could have happened. When it finally clicked, Simmons cursed.

“Son of a bitch.”

And when Simmons returned to the food storage, having run so quickly that he almost slipped on the floor when he turned right to enter the kitchen, and saw that it was still a mess and there was no sign of Orange, he cursed even louder.

“ _SON OF A BITCH!_ ”

It took ten minutes before Simmons had made the storage presentable again, and he was cursing the entire time. He had been tricked, and he had been tricked badly.

The worst part was that he was unable to fix it. Because he was a stupid fucking idiot, he had forgotten to ask Orange about his name or which Dorm he slept in (certainly not Dorm D17. Fucktard.), and so Simmons had no way of tracking him down.

The only thing he could do was to tell his Drill Sergeant, Sergeant Flynn, about the oranges soldier’s disobedience and then hope that there was only one person wearing orange on their camp. Simmons would hate to get another person in trouble just because someone else had been a complete fucking, irresponsible, lazy idiot.

Just like Simmons did not deserve to be punished just because Orange had extended his rule-breaking to include lying to a superior private.

But then again, maybe waking up their Drill Sergeant in the middle of the night to report something that was already too late to fix was not the best idea. Especially since Simmons’ appointed Drill Sergeant was Sergeant Flynn who seemed to be unable to talk without shouting. Simmons would rather not meet the morning grumpy version of Sergeant Flynn.

He had already seen the pissed off version of Sergeant Flynn, not the mention the regular version of Sergeant Flynn, and Simmons still had nightmares where the a big, flushed face would flow in front of him to shout insults. Simmons thought he would never meet a man who could induce more fear than Simmons’ own father, but Sergeant Flynn was not exactly a charming individual.

There were still two hours until his patrol ended, so Simmons could not even go to bed. Maybe that was a good thing, since the door was probably locked.

All in all, Simmons was having a shitty night, and it was about to take a turn for the worse.

Dragging his feet behind him, he began another round with a sigh. The rifle felt very heavy on his back as he opened the door to step outside into the cold night air. He was supposed to take a walk around the building before heading towards the sleeping quarters (well, at least he did not need to check up on Dorm D17. Fucking. Stupid. Idiot.).

It was dark outside, with only a few dim lights mounted on the wall. They flashed occasionally, leaving him in total darkness. Luckily he had not been afraid of the darkness since he was nine years old.

It was only because the color orange really sucked at being a camouflage that Simmons spotted him. He was crouching near the administration building, seemingly fiddling with the lock.

Simmons recognized him immediately.

“The son of a bitch!”

By the time he had reached Orange, Simmons had put the pieces together. Forcefully grabbing his shoulder plate, he spun him around so he would have to look at him. The snack-filled bag was still resting on an orange shoulder. “You’re trying to escape the camp!”

Orange’s body was tense in the beginning, mostly from the sheer shock of Simmons appearing out of nowhere, but he seemed to relax after a couple of seconds. When he spoke, his voice was dripping so heavily with sarcasm that Simmons picked up on it immediately. “Me? Nooo. Why would you even think that?”

Placing his hands on his hips, Simmons began to read aloud from the mental list he had made of Orange’s actions. “Well, you were caught with an impressive amount of stolen, long-life food enough to last for a longer travel, and now you are trying to enter administration building where the keep all the files you need to gather information on the supply-transports’ arrivals and takeoffs.”

Orange held up a finger to silence him. “Dude, three things. First, my question was sarcastic, so you just wasted your breath. Second, this bag?” He shook it to emphasize. “ _A longer travel_? More like a couple of days at max. A man’s got to eat. And thirdly, is that true?”

“What?”

“This place can tell me when I can jump on a spaceship and get the fuck out of here?!” His voice sounded happy, in fact so joyful that it had a slight tint of disbelief.

Simmons’ frown was hidden by his visor. “Wait, if you didn’t come here for that, then what the fuck are you doing?”

“Simple. I’m going to delete my records.” The orange helmet suddenly became tilted, and Simmons could not help but feel unnerved. “And you’re going to help me.”

“ _What_?!” Simmons shrieked, aware that his voice cracked in the end. “No, I’m not! I’m going to report you!”

Simmons could _feel_ the smirk behind the other man’s visor. “Well, you could try to do that but…

“But what?”

Orange shrugged. “I’d just make you my accomplice. Follow you to the Sergeant, tell him you’re lying and then we’d both be stuck in the deep in the deep end of hell together.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Simmons said, trying to keep his voice stern though he was already visualizing being forced to clean the camp’s floor with his toothbrush. “I’ve still been given the authority to patrol the area, so of course they would believe my word over yours.”

“Yeah?” Orange said, fucking smugness spilling from that one word. “And what if you didn’t have your kissass-card?”

Immediately, Simmons tried to find his card in his pocket, only to find it empty, and in his panic he began to pat down his armor in his search, though he knew it was useless. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at Orange who was leaning against the wall in a nonchalant manner. Simmons suddenly remembered the strange ‘friendly’ pat on the back he had been given. He should have known it was too suspicious – no one ever thanked Simmons openly. “You stole my card!”

“Maybe.” He had to be grinning behind his visor.

Simmons dropped his jaw for a couple of seconds, but then decided he would not let Orange win this battle. After all, a Private First Class should be able to handle this, so of course Simmons could just brush this off. “I’ll be sure to add that to the list of rules you have violated tonight,” he said dryly. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m still on patrol and that means I can report you.”

“Really? Just think about it, dude. Do you really think anyone here knows who you are? Do you think they care? So maybe some soldiers have heard of the kissass whose nose is far up Flynn’s butt that you’re literally his pain in the ass. But don’t fool yourself, man. No one knows your name unless they’re looking at a list. You even told me your name like half an hour ago and I can’t even remember it!” He paused, finger on the chin area of his helmet. “It starts with a T, right?”

“Wha- No!”

“But it has an I in it? Jim?”

“ _No_! Simmons. Siiiimmoons. Two m’s.” Simmons most definitely had a headache now, and it wasn’t just due to the lack of sleep.

Orange nodded. “Right. So you go ahead and try to convince you’re important. See if they know who Timmons-“

“-Simmons-“

“-with two m’s is.” Orange crossed his arms and Simmons felt like he was staring him down, even though Orange was at least four inches smaller. “So yeah, we can fetch the Sergeant and see if they know who you are. _Or_ you could help me get out of here and no one would ever have to know about how shitty you are patrolling.” He held out a hand, waiting for him to shake it. “What do you say, buddy?”

Simmons mostly wanted to say “Fuck you”, but his logic forced him to take the hand. “I want my card back,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t have it. What, do you think I would have kept it on me for you to steal it back? How stupid do you think I am?”

“Very,” Simmons replied flatly. “I think you are very stupid. And what is this?” He held up his hand, the one he had used to shake with Orange, as he noticed a brown stain on his palm. “Is this… melted chocolate?”

“You’re too late if you want to share, dude,” Orange snorted, readjusting the bag over his shoulder.

Simmons was running out of ways the evening could become even worse. “You’re disgusting.”

“Glad we got that settled,” the other man huffed. “So you wanna get this over with? I’ll tell you where you can find your card afterwards. Can’t have you forgetting your own name.”

“Funny,” Simmons spat and wondered if there was any possible way he could somehow bust the orange soldier while getting away with it.

“Meh, I’d call it sad if anything.”

 Figuring they could just as well start this shitshow, Simmons asked with a sigh, “So I suppose you have a plan?”

Orange waved him closer so they both were facing the door’s lock that Simmons had caught him fiddling with. “I was trying to get through this thing, whatever the fuck it is, and then get inside, delete my records, then get with the first ship out of here.”

“But _why_?” Simmons groaned in frustration. The plan was stupid enough in itself, but now it seemed it had an even stupider logic behind it.

The orange head turned so suddenly to stare at him that it seemed like Orange was shocked. “Do you even _know_ where we are?!”

“Basic camp?”

“And that’s exactly why I need to get the fuck out of here!”  Orange concluded, even stamping his foot to illustrate his point.

Simmons wondered how loud they had to yell for anyone to hear them, and whether being heard was a good or a bad thing. Crossing his arms, he asked, “Why did you even join up in the first place? And if you want to go home, why not just sign out instead of breaking locks? I’d expect a guy like you to take the simplest solution.” 

“Just to make things clear – You think I enjoy how much work I’ve put into this? ‘cause no, I don’t. I’m wasting _an entire night’s sleep_ for this. That’s the biggest sacrifice I could ever make. But if I get out of here, it’ll be totally worth it.” He froze, looking over his shoulder to stare at Simmons. “And I didn’t join up. I was drafted. A one-man draft, just to piss on me.”

While that could explain a lot, Simmons was not convinced. “There’s no such thing as a one-man draft.”

“Do you have any other reason to why I would be here?” Orange snorted and that about settled it.

Simmons turned his head away from him to look at the lock, and wondered what the fuck Orange had been doing with it before Simmons showed up since the door had no actual panel.

“You’re a nerd, aren’t you?” Orange asked him as Simmons took a closer look. “You know how to hack those things, right?”

“A computer maybe,” Simmons answered and appreciated the fact that the question had not sounded condescending. “But this needs a keycard.”

“So where do we get one of those?”

“Well, the Sergeants have to have one,” Simmons suggested and immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Great. Let’s go there.”

Simmons had to hold up his hands in order to keep Orange from marching away. “Wait, wait, wait. We can’t do that. We’re not allowed to enter the Sergeants’ sleeping quarters.”

“Aren’t you on patrol to secure the _entire_ camp?”

“Well, there are limits!” Simmons sputtered. “I mean, my rifle isn’t even loaded.”

Orange choked on something. “Seriously?”

“We aren’t allowed to use ammo outside the training court!”

There was a moment where Orange just stared at him, kinda like the Sergeant when they were standing at attention. Simmons awkwardly rubbed his neck while lowering his glance to avoid eye-contact. Finally, Orange leaned back and declared, “Dude, you are fucking pathetic.”

“Well, I’m helping you with this stupid plan so that should be kinda obvious!” Simmons snapped and hoped it work as an insult.

Orange seemed untouched by the remark and merely snorted, “I’m more armed than you!”

“You brought a fucking gun?!”

“No way. Those things are locked up tight. I got this, though.”

He dangled the tool in front of Simmons’ visor and the maroon soldier had to blink a couple of times before it came into focus. When it did, it took a couple of seconds before he trusted what he saw. “That’s a fucking plastic spoon! Are you trying to dig your way out?”

“Oh, those things take forever to make! Too much work! I’m getting out, and I’m getting out tonight.”

“And just what are you using the spoon for?!”

Tightening his grip on said cutlery, Orange began to explain, “Just try to follow me here! Someone says they’re going to kill you with a knife and that sounds pretty damn horrible. But if someone says they’re going to kill you with a spoon, that’s an even more painful death.”

It took four seconds before Simmons found his voice. “That’s so fucking stupid. You can’t threaten anyone with a spoon.”

“Really? ‘cause I say you either help me fetch that keycard or I’ll spoon you. As in carving your insides out with a spoon. Not the weird kind of spooning.”

Simmons rolled his eyes and slapped away the orange armored hand that was holding the spoon in front of his face. “Did you just threaten a soldier on patrol? Because that is punishable, you know.”

“Hey, you just said it’s impossible to threaten anyone with a spoon. So no – I didn’t threaten you.”

Using his own logic against him? Maybe Orange was a bit smarter than expected.  “Well, you’re out of luck because there is no way that I will break into Sergeant Flynn’s quarters. If he sees us, he will gut us. With a knife,” he added, just so they were clear on the spoon’s uselessness. “I’d rather get in trouble for being your accomplice than risking my life by setting a foot inside his quarters.”

Simmons had gotten used to the idea by now. He could handle whatever punishment he would be given. He would be bitter as hell and hate Orange for the rest of his life, but there was no fucking way that he would intrude on Sergeant Flynn’s privacy.

But before he could turn away, Orange told him, “I guess I have to raise the stakes then. If I don’t get out of this place, I’ll be your partner for the rest of the time we’re stuck here.”

“ _What_?!”

Orange crossed his arms. “You heard me. Good thing you like working ‘cause if we’re in the same group, you’d had to do my parts as well. We could even be bunkmates. Fair warning though – I don’t clean up ‘cause I don’t believe in those sorts of thing, so when they come knocking on our door, you’d either have to clean it up for me or wash both halves of the floor when they make that our punishment.”

“How can one not believe in cleaning?! That doesn’t even make sense!”

“Hey, don’t go shove your beliefs down someone else’s throat, man. Be respectful.”

“ _What_?!” Simmons sputtered and shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t do that!”

“Well, you’re the one asking for new bunkmates.”

So maybe Simmons had grown tired of the friendly teasing and had applied to be sent to another dorm. He had received no reply so far, and he lost hope and settled with the fact that the floor on the locker room probably wasn’t the hardest surface to sleep on. “How do _you_ know that?”

“You think everyone hasn’t heard of the kissass that who sleeps in the locker room? You stole my spot, you know. The lockers were the perfect hiding place for a midday nap.”

Simmons had had the suspicion from the beginning, but now he was left with no doubt. “You’re the fatass who spends all day slacking off. I’ve heard about you.”

“And you’re the kissass. Don’t think you escaped a reputation. At least mine gives me respect,” Orange said with a thumb pointing towards his chest.

Simmons thought of the way people had laughed as they talked about orange soldier collapsing to throw up as Sergeant Flynn ordered him to run the fifth lap. “It really doesn’t.”

“At least I’ve only slept in the locker room voluntarily,” Orange gave back. “Look, kissass. You’ve only heard the tales of me not trying. What you haven’t seen is me really trying not to try. ‘cause that’s taking it the next level.”

Simmons couldn’t even imagine how that would look like. It occurred to him that he did not want to.

Orange had tilted his helmet again, awaiting some kind of response from Simmons. “Well, I’m flattered you want me to stick around. I’m sure you have a whole line of people volunteering to be your partner.”

“Fine. You win!” Simmons threw up his arms in frustration. “I couldn’t stand being around you for a week! I’d have lost my entire sanity by then!”

“Right. Then let’s get me out of here.”

At least Orange had the ability to move quietly. The door to the Sergeants’ quarters was unlocked, probably due to the fact that no one should be brave enough to enter.  Orange closed the door behind them, and it suddenly occurred to Simmons how foolish it was to call him by his color. It was almost racist, right?

“So, uhm, you know my name?” he whispered, making sure to keep his voice low since they both found themselves in dangerous territory.

“What? You want me to remember it? ‘cause I’m still pretty sure that there’s an I-“

“No,” Simmons cut him off in a whisper. “I mean, I should know your name.”

Freezing, Orange stopped sneaking forwards to look over his shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to be smart? Why should I give you my name? You’d just rat me out.”

Simmons tried not to pay too much attention to their surroundings – he did not need to know how Sergeant’s Flynn lived since he was not supposed to be here in the first place. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed that the walls were quite sparse when it came to decoration, but the rooms had more furniture than the privates were used to. “Well, if I don’t know your name, I just have to stick with Fatass.”

“You’d do that anyway,” Fatass whispered back, and, well, he did have a point. “What the fuck? Why does he have a fucking couch when we don’t?”

“Maybe because _he’s the fucking Sergeant_!” Simmons hissed. When they snuck under a portrait of Sergeant Flynn – while the picture itself only showed a person covered in blood red armor decorated with black stripes, the menacing blank stare of the visor could only belong to Sergeant Flynn plus the polished metal sign underneath the frame with the words _SERGEANT FLYNN_ did make it obvious – Simmons could feel the visor’s gaze burn into his back, and he whispered, “What if we get caught? Oh man, what if he sees us?”

“Then we spoon him. Or die an honorable death. Isn’t that what you guys signed up for?”

“Well, we didn’t sign up to just die.”

“Sure. You’ll all survive the war and return as war heroes. I’ll make sure to get your autograph before I leave,” Fatass said and picked up his pace. They remained low, heading for the door further down the hall.

While Simmons had done the math himself and he had calculated his chances of survival once he stepped out on an actual war field, he preferred not to think about it. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

“Hey, I’m just saying if you want to delete your own records while we’re at it, feel free to grab the chance,” Fatass told him just before they reached the door suspected led to the bedroom which was the place they thought he kept the keycard.

They stood there for a minute, visors facing each other as they mentally debated who should open the door, but no one had to do so as the door suddenly opened by itself.

Well, not exactly by itself.

It was by pure luck that they both backed away immediately, crouching on the right of the doorway, as Sergeant Flynn stormed out of his bedroom and turned left, heading for the bathroom so quickly he almost stumbled over his own legs.

The two privates stayed low, jaws dropped in shock due to two reasons – one being the fact that they had remained unnoticed, two being the fact that this was the first time they had seen Sergeant Flynn out of armor.

As in _really_ out of armor.

“Huh,” Fatass sad, bring the first one to find his voice. “I’d expected him to sleep in his armor. Or camouflage colored nightwear. Really hadn’t seen this coming.”

“I wish I hadn’t seen it,” Simmons said, voice wavering after the trauma. “Oh my god, I think I’m blind.”

“Stop whining,” Fatass said and entered the bedroom. Simmons remained too shocked to follow him. “Just write it off as a battle scar on the brain.”

Simmons tried to make his limbs move, but he was frozen like a statue. Only his eyelids were in constant motion, since he was blinking rapidly, trying to clear the mental images from his mind. While Sergeant Flynn’s face had showed up in his nightmares before, Simmons suspected it would be other parts of Sergeant Flynn that would haunt him from now on.

“You think he has any cash hidden in here?” Fatass whispered from inside the bedroom, barely loud enough for Simmons to hear.

But the comment was enough to slap Simmons out of his traumatic experience, and he finally stepped inside the room to whisper, “We’re not going to fucking rob him! Just take the card and go.”

“Found it. On the dresser, next to the framed picture of his mom, hah!” Fatass joined him in the doorway, triumphantly lifting the keycard in the air with his closed fist.

“Oh fuck, how are we going to get out of here before he returns?” Simmons glanced nervously at the bathroom door that was between the privates and the exit to freedom. At least Sergeant Flynn had slammed it close behind him, but he should soon be finished with his, uh, business and there was no way he could avoid spotting them now.

It was not Fatass who answered him, but the bathroom itself. Or, rather, the horrifying noise coming from the bathroom, loud enough to make the privates cringe.

“Uhm, I think he is busy,” Fatass replied when the roar-like sound had died out.

Simmons had to agree with him, and the desire to get the hell out of here made him take the lead in their escape. They did not have to stay that low this time – the noises coming from the bathroom more than drowned out their footsteps.

Fatass turned his head distastefully towards the sounds. “This is what I always say: If you can’t handle the chili tacos, you’re not worthy of them.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Even when they closed the door behind them, Simmons heart was still pounding like crazy. He could only remember one time where he had really broken the rules like this – the time he had gone against his father’s wishes and tried to join the mathletes. His increased anxiety during the entrance test was more due to the thought of his father’s reaction when he found out than the fear of actually failing the examination. While he had passed the test, his father also made sure his son signed out the next day, and two weeks afterwards Simmons had been put in the women’s league.

At least this time had turned out more rewarding for Simmons. Or for the fatass, at least.

“Sweet freedom!” Fatass breathed out as they walked back to the administration building. “I can almost taste it!”

“That might just be the leftovers of all that cereal you’ve shoved in your mouth,” Simmons reminded him dryly, glaring bitterly at the filled bag.

“It’s not easy to find snacks in this place,” Fatass said, living up to his nickname. “The packs of Oreos I smuggled with me didn’t even last a week.”

“I’m surprised they lasted a day.” When Fatass did not speak up to defend himself, Simmons sighed, “Really?”

“I’m a nervous eater, alright?” Fatass said while rubbing his arm. Simmons did not know how to respond to that, so he shut up. It was almost 4 AM now, and he wondered how many times he would have made his route by now had he not been disturbed. He wondered if the fatass still would have been fiddling with the lock. “So what are your issues?”

“Huh?” The question was so direct that Simmons was not sure if it was an insult. Well, not to deny the fact that he may have issues, but those should only be brought up by a therapist, not a lazy draftee.

“Look, I’m feeling bad wasting my hours of sleep on this, even though I’m making a dream come true. _You_ are willingly giving your sleep away for what? Patrolling the base for no reason but asskissing? You have to sort out your priorities, dude.”

Once again Simmons chose to stay silent. He thought that it would be it, that the fatass would just shove in the keycard so they could get this over with. But the orange helmet remained tilted, awaiting an answer, so Simmons had to find one. “It never hurts to get promoted.”

“That’s just sad.”

“Well,” Simmons said, “not as sad as a one-man draft.”

Fatass snorted, but it sounded more like a laugh than anything. It made Simmons’ body a bit less tense. The door opened when he slipped in the keycard, and Simmons let out a sigh of relief. He had feared alarms or guards or something. There was no way that things could go this smooth. Not with such an idiotic plan.

Fatass seemed to be in disbelief as well. “I can’t believe the only thing gone wrong tonight was you fucking up your route.”

“I didn’t fuck up anything!”

“I totally had five more minutes before you should show up. Or, well, I think so. My clock’s still messed up.” He banged on his helmet to show his point. “And what’s with all those hundreds hours anyway? No one have that much time.”

“Have you not paid any attention in our classes? Wait –you don’t need to answer that. And for your information, I was late on my route because _someone_ didn’t clean up the storage room like he promised.”

Simmons looked at the ceiling for any signs of surveillance cameras but found none. That would have been one way to ruin the entire night. Not that the night was fun or anything. What they were doing was stupid. Definitely. But they had not been caught yet, and Simmons could not deny that little feeling pride that was burning inside his chest at the thought that they were actually getting away with all this.

“Hey, you could hack computers right?” Fatass called out, intruding on Simmons’ thought-process once again. The orange soldier had gone ahead and was now standing in the main room, already pressing several of the computer’s buttons in a random manner that drove Simmons crazy just by the sight of it.

Shoving Fatass away in order to save the technology, Simmons grudgingly began to work. “Well, it doesn’t look that complicated. It’s not like they keep big military secrets in here?” He laughed nervously at the thought.

“Hey, we’re doing them a favor getting me away from here. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not what they call fit to be a soldier.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” Simmons said without taking his eyes off the screen.  The code itself had been easy enough to crack, and now he was keeping himself busy searching through an endless amount of folders.

Fatass looked over his shoulder but Simmons doubted he had any real knowledge of what was happening in the computer. Once again Simmons wondered just how the orange soldier could have gotten through with this without his help. “So why did you join?”

Simmons let his hand hover above the mouse. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” came the quick reply. “I’m just bored.”

“Why don’t you fucking help then?!” Simmons snapped and pressed the spacebar extra hard.

Fatass was now leaning so close to the screen that he was accidently – at least, Simmons hoped it wasn’t on purpose – pushing Simmons to the side. “I don’t know how to hack,” he answered with a shrug.

“Seriously, _how_ were you going to go through with this if you hadn’t blackmailed me?”

“Life finds a way.”

Simmons snorted, “You expected life to hack the computer for you? Seriously?”

“Well, you _are_ hacking it for me right now, so I’m obviously right. Just another reason to do nothing, dude. Life solves it in the end.”

“So, what if I hadn’t showed up? You were going to somehow breach the door – you have to use your weight for something – step inside and just push some random buttons? And if a miracle happened and you actually managed to delete your file, what then? Was there even an actual plan behind all this?!”

“Sure. When one of them landed, I’d sneak away on an airship. If someone spotted me before that, I’d give them my name, they’d see I didn’t belong here, and I would get a free ticket home.” He had his head held high, as if he was actually proud of this so-called plan. “Spent weeks planning this. Too much work for it to go wrong.”

“So you spent weeks coming up with the idea to go fuck-it and then improvise?” Simmons had seen stupidity before but not this kind of stupidity. It almost seemed desperate. “Wow. I see why they’re keeping you for your strategy skills.”

“Hey, I’m doing everyone a favor getting out of here.”

“I’m not disagreeing.” Simmons let out a short huff when he finally found the folder he had been looking for. At least he thought so. It was not like he was a specialist or something. But it felt oddly nice to put his skills to use. Not that this was going to be habit of his; this was would be the first and only time he broke the rules. “Uhm, you need to write your name here.”

“You found it?!” Fatass exclaimed happily, brushing shoulders with Simmons in his eagerness.

“Well, I found the folder. Not your specific records – I need your name for that.”

“Oh.” When Simmons stepped aside, Fatass took the place in front of the panel.

Very slowly letters so big that Simmons could not help but see them showed up on the screen to spell a name.

_DEXTER GRIF_

Simmons said the name out loud without thinking further about it, but hearing his own name caused this Grif to jump slightly. “Hey, you snitch, you get spooned.”

“Don’t worry. I’m never talking about this night. The moment we’re finished, I am going to forget this memory before it causes me a trauma.”

“Whatever makes you sleep at night,” Grif said and took a step to the left to let Simmons take control of the computer again. However, he kept looking over the maroon shoulder, since he apparently could not hold back his curiosity. “So can you delete it?”

“Sure. I just need to go through…” Simmons trailed off when the big, italic letters on the top of the file caught his attention. “Wait, you’ve already finished your final tests?!”

“I have? Since when? Wait, did I fucking pass?!” Grif seemed even more shocked than Simmons was.

In fact, Simmons had to squint in order to make sure that he read it right. “I think so. How did you not know you’ve finished your final tests?!”

“Look, people ask me to do stuff all the time. I don’t care, and I definitely don’t care if they think it matters. I ignore orders all the time – I’m not picky when not to do so.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Simmons had to fight the urge grab Grif by the shoulders and shake him. There was no way that someone could distance them that much from reality. There was still three weeks left before Simmons had to go through his final tests, and he had already begun to mentally prepare now. That meant spending his nights staring at the ceiling, wondering how he could somehow give his life purpose should he fail.

“What, so I did pass?! Holy fuck!”

“Well, it says you are done with Basic. They are transferring you to Colony Proto on Qaeter tomorrow. Well, actually today, since we are way past midnight.”

“Holy fucking fuck,” Grif said and pushed Simmons aside to take a look for himself.

The maroon soldier let him, a bit puzzled with Grif’s sudden interest in his own career. “So, hey, you are getting what you want. You’re getting out of here.”

“Yeah,” Grif said thickly. “Like, shit.”

“I hadn’t seen it coming, either,” Simmons replied honestly. “Did you cheat or something? You had to be cheating. Right?”

“So this is like _war_ war?” Grif was still staring at the screen, hands hanging limply at his side.

Simmons nodded. “At least you won’t see Sergeant Flynn.”

Grif finally turned around to stare at Simmons instead of the screen. The visor hid his expression too well, and for some reason Simmons wished he could hear the other man’s thoughts. He wasn’t quite sure why. “So I’m going to be a real soldier. Out there. That means good pay, right?”

Simmons briefly recalled how the orange soldier had suggested looking for cash in Sergeant Flynn’s room. Even though Simmons had known Grif was a thief right from the start, he had thought the fatass only had a craving for snacks. Chances were Simmons did not know Grif that well, and maybe it was a good thing they could not hang out anymore.

Not that they were hanging out right now. This was completely involuntary. Being blackmailed and all that.

“What? You in debt or something?”

Grif shrugged. “Sending some cash back home can’t hurt.”

For some strange reason, Simmons just knew not to ask further into it. Maybe because he did not want to. Maybe because he shouldn’t. The less he knew about Grif, the better.

It suddenly occurred to Simmons that reacted to this whole situation the wrong way. For fuck’s sake, he was helping Grif becoming a criminal – uhm, correction, he was being forced to help Grif. But now he had the chance to stop Grif and show him the other option.

All Privates First Class should be good examples for the rest of the soldiers. Simmons should do no less. “I mean, there’s that, but you should consider this your first, and probably only, promotion! Good job! Well, not really, but it has to count for something.”

Grif said nothing, but shifted his weight from one foot to another. It was clear that he was in deep thoughts. And that had to be a good sign – maybe Simmons’ words were getting to him.

“Besides, this is the best chance you have. You don’t know if your other plan would have worked. Better safe than sorry.” He let out a weak chuckle, not knowing exactly what he found funny, and fiddled his thumbs. “If you went through with that, you’d be a criminal, and if they found out, they’d hunt you down. No one wants that. Right? I mean, you don’t want to be shot.” Under his breath, Simmons added, “And I don’t want to help a criminal escape.”

“But you get shot on colonies, right? Fucking aliens, dude, I can’t face that!”

While Simmons did not exactly look forward to his own first meeting with the enemy, he knew it was not something to be avoided. And Basics would have prepared them for it by then! Well, Simmons did not even feel remotely prepared, but he still had three weeks left! Lot of time. He’d be a pro by then. First Class Private.

“Not the ones so far away. From what I’ve heard, they barely see any action.” That was completely true, and the rumors had filled Simmons with hope. In fact, he was slightly jealous that the fatass would be spending his time on a place like Qaeter. Not that Simmons was too much of a coward to actually join the fight, but, well, too much action was never to be preferred, right? “Just patrolling all day. And I’m sure people are nice. And they’ll have cereal there, too.”

“No shit, Simmons, they have to feed us with something.”

It was the first time his name had truly been said out loud by the orange soldier that evening, and Simmons could not help but jerk his body a little bit when he heard it. At least Grif had not noticed it. “It’s just… They’re bound to have files stored other places than here. I don’t think deleting this –“ He gestured towards the screen. “- will make you a free man. At least you can get away from Basic tomorrow. Uhm, today, actually. In about 4 hours. I doubt things can get any worse on Qaeter.” At least he hoped. Simmons was looking forward to getting away from Basic as well, and he could not imagine a base worse than what he was currently experiencing.

“Maybe they have Oreos,” Grif suggested very quietly. He should have been more happy at the thought.

Simmons nodded. “I just… wouldn’t throw my career away like that.”

“Look, I’m more worried about throwing my life away. Simmons, seriously, your priorities need to be checked.” Grif turned away to look at the screen, the red background being reflected in his visor. “Well, shit,” he said again, and Simmons had run out of arguments.

The orange soldier bowed over the panel, running through his options. While Simmons let him think in peace, he could not help but glance nervously at the clock in the corner of his helmet. They did not have all the time in the world before the others would begin to wake up.

“Fuck it,” Grif suddenly snarled, readjusting his bag before spinning around to march out of the room. “Fucking fuck it.”

“Wait, so does this mean you’re not going to break the law?” Simmons called out before the orange soldier could leave the room.

Grif called over his shoulder, “Hey, don’t think of this as an accomplishment or anything. I’m just left with two shitty options, and I just chose the one who sucks the least. Which still sucks a lot. So yeah, just leave the file.” He then began to walk away, his shape slumped over to show his bad mood.

Before he could reach the door, Simmons suddenly realized just why he had agreed in the first place. “Hey, fucktard, you promised to give me back my card!”

“It’s in the box with the pasta for the lasagna. I wanted to see if they would notice it or just cook it along with the rest of the stiff plates.”

“For fuck’s sake, Grif!”

“Hey, you got nothing to complain about!” said soldier called out, his voice getting more and more muffled the further he came away from Simmons. “You’re just doing your job!”

“You could at least help me get it back!”

“No way! I have a whole night’s sleep to catch up with, and I don’t know if we’re allowed to nap on the ship! So I’m busy, asshole!”

“Well, that doesn’t mean-!” Simmons was cut off by the door slamming closed. For a moment he just stood alone in a building he wasn’t supposed to enter, and when he finally realized how wrong the situation was, he quickly shut down the computer, left the keycard in a drawer, and hurried out of there as if the Sergeant Flynn was yelling at him to run faster.

There was no sign of any orange armor as he walked through the camp, not even when he entered the mess hall to visit the food storage again. The card was hidden where he had been told – at least the fastass kept some part of his promise.

With a headache clawing his brain, Simmons tried his best not to think about just how weird the night had been. Or how many consequences he might be facing if someone found out. Or how strange it was that Grif had somehow passed the tests.

Instead he decided to focus on how much he missed his bed.

However, that longing turned quite bitter when he returned to his room and found it locked. Resting his head against the door for a second, Simmons cursed everything and everyone before shuffling down the hall to sleep in the locker room.

When he had found a somewhat comfortable position on the cold floor and was staring up at the tiles of the ceiling, Simmons was quickly falling asleep.

His last thought was that maybe it would not have been that bad to have Grif as his bunkmate compared to the idiots he was currently sharing room with, and if that thought did not prove that tonight had driven Simmons crazy, he did not know that could.

* * *

Simmons spent the next three weeks realizing how big an idiot Grif had been.

For example, he had said that Simmons would never receive any praise for his voluntary patrols. But on the fourth time he had stayed awake all night to guard the camp, he had run into Sergeant Flynn in the morning and declared that everything was just as it should be. Sir.

So maybe Sergeant Flynn had yelled a bit before realizing Simmons was supposed to be up. And maybe Simmons had to show his card to prove it. And maybe he had gotten his name quite wrong, even after having seen it on the card. But Dinkman was pretty close to Simmons. At least it had an I.

And maybe Simmons had not been promoted to Private First Class. And that did not bother Simmons at all.

Not the slightest.

Because it shouldn’t. Today he would pass his final tests, and then he would be out of this place. That meant he did not need Sergeant Flynn’s approval. So why should he try to impress him when it was already too late?

Simmons would get a new Sergeant, someone who would see his worth and praise him and call him ‘Son’.

Things could only improve from Basic.

Being send to a new, smaller base would give Simmons the chance to make the perfect first impression. He could stand out from his fellow privates if they were only a small group. And then he could make friends with them.

So maybe Grif had been the person Simmons had talked the most with in his time in Basic. Which was honestly kind of sad, since they had only been together for a few hours and he had been annoying as hell.

So yeah, things could only get better from here.

Simmons was shaking with excitement. Or anxiety. Or a big of both. But that was normal. It was a big day after all.

The pieces of cereal jumped off Simmons’ spoon as his hand kept shaking, and the breakfast served as a reminder of what had taken place three weeks ago. Of course Simmons had tried to forget it all, but, well…

…it wasn’t every day you hacked a military facility’s computer with no problem.

Which was why he should not be nervous about the tests today. Of course he would pass them. Of course.

Simmons was sitting on a table for himself in the mess hall, trying to keep the others’ voices out of his head as he took in one deep breath. It was all about confidence. Actually, screw confidence. It was all about logic, and logic was something Simmons could handle.

It was only because the planet’s name had been burned into his memory that Simmons heard it.

“Yep. Qaeter. That’s the name. Called it a massacre. Blood everywhere.”

Simmons choked on his cereal. For the next few seconds, he just focused on not dying, but when he was finally able to breathe again, he stumbled towards the table to ask, “Wait, wait, wait. What?”

A soldier that Simmons barely recognized from training but had never spoken with before shrugged and said, “Just came in with the news. Alien attack. Hit Qaeter hard. Took down a whole colony.”

Simmons did not want to ask, he _really_ did not want to ask, why the fuck was he asking, “Which… which colony?”

“Uhm…” The soldier snapped his fingers when he remembered. “Proto. Even the base is unusable now – too much blood seeped into the floor.”

“You’re just making that up,” another soldier at the table asked. They seemed to be ignoring the fact that Simmons was frozen like a statue.

“Shut the fuck up, Nilsen! I heard them talk about it – they called it a slaughterhouse. Hadn’t found any survivors yet, and they doubt that would change. They talked about how they had stumbled in guts when they had first stepped inside and-“

Simmons was used to awkward situation. He was also used to being the cause of the awkward situation. But he had never tried to throw up on someone’s table before. That one was new.

“What the fuck?!” one the soldiers asked as they all threw themselves backwards to avoid the vomit.

Simmons’ expression was horrified for more than one reason, and he gingerly apologized before running towards the bathroom as fast as he could, barely finding the time to get a grip on his helmet to bring it along.

He splashed water on his pale face and told himself that it was not his fault.

There was no way he could be held responsible for this.

Maybe he had been the one to convince Grif to go. But there had been so many good reasons to why it had the right choice. Everyone else would have come to the same conclusion. It was perfectly logical.

And there was no fucking way that Simmons could have known that _this_ would have happened.

Besides, it had not even been his idea to begin with. It was Grif that had dragged him along, Grif that had forced him to help him. If Grif had just left him alone, Simmons would not have had the chance to open his fucking mouth, and then just maybe…

But he could not think about that. That was pointless. Completely pointless. Plus, he did not have the time.

In fact, he was supposed to be taking his final tests now, so Simmons had to run, and even when he reached the room the examination would take place, his face was still pale and his breathing still ragged.

But that was normal. Just anxiety.

The paper was placed in front of him, and the first question asked him to describe the various ways to flank the enemy if they were down to only two men. Easy. Simmons could answer that.

He just needed not to think about Grif, and how he had been so desperate to get out of here, and how Simmons had talked him out of it, and how Grif was lying somewhere with his gut torn open and there would be blood everywhere, but Simmons could not help him, since Simmons was taking his tests now, the final tests, the one with the time limits and…

Well, fuck.

Simmons looked down at the paper and tried to put some words together. He knew the answers, he was sure of that, but it was just so hard to concentrate with that knot inside his stomach. The one that told him he had gotten the only person that had actually been relatively nice to him killed.

But it wasn’t his fault. Most definitely not. He had done the right thing. None of them could have known this would have happened, because if they had granted that knowledge back then, Simmons would have helped Grif on an aircraft heading towards anywhere but Qaeter.

But it was stupid thinking those stupid thoughts, because it was too late now anyway, Simmons would find new friends, he just needed to pass these tests, which meant he had to force the thoughts away and focus on the questions before the time ran out…

_Those fucking time limits._

* * *

They did not receive much news in Blood Gulch.

Two weeks after Simmons had given Sarge had best first impression, the Sergeant had suddenly declared they were getting a new private, and then the spaceship had landed and dropped Grif off.

Simmons should have been used to life being weird as this point, but he had truly not expected this.

When the orange soldier had stepped into the base, Simmons first thought had been of how he did not have to worry about competing for Sarge’s favor. Then he realized that Grif was alive, holy fuck, and he was going to live with them.

What the hell?

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Grif exclaimed when he recognized him. “Simmons? I’m going to be living with a kissass? Haven’t I been punished enough?”

“Hey, I fucking helped you, and now I’m getting stuck with you anyway!”

Grif crossed his arms, tilting his head in a cocky manner. Simmons felt strangely relieved at the sight. “I told you, you weren’t getting that promotion.”

“Yeah, you did.” Simmons did not offer to help Grif carry his bag to the room they were going to share together. He had the suspicion it was felt with snacks.

“Bunk-beds? Really?”

“Now you’re putting me in a fucking dilemma!” Simmons scolded him as the horrifying realization sunk in. “I always sleep on the lower bunk, since sleeping in the upper bunk gives you 74% higher chance of falling down, hitting your head and killing yourself, but I think I have a higher chance of dying by letting you sleep up there which most definitely increases the chance of the bed falling apart and killing me in the process.”

“You really think I’m going to climb a fucking ladder?!”

“Good point,” Simmons snorted and watched how Grif began to unpack his bag. He was trying to keep his mouth shut, biting his own tongue to hold the question back. He had spent the last two weeks trying to repress the thoughts, but now Grif was here and it was probably right to… No, he should probably just leave it alone, but Simmons’ curiosity won and he asked, trying to sound as casual about it as possible, “So… how was Qaeter?”

Grif froze like he had been electrocuted, and Simmons mentally cursed himself – he fucking _knew_ he should just have kept his mouth shut. But then the orange soldier suddenly let his body relax and he answered calmly, “It sucked. No Oreos there, either.” After placing three boxes of snack cakes on the bed, he turned around to face Simmons. “So how’s this place?”

“Well, you know, not Basic.”

“Thank fucking Christ. I can’t go back to hell, Simmons.”

Simmons wrung his hands, made a promise never to bring up Qaeter, and tried to brush off the chill Grif’s comment had given him. “Sarge should probably be back soon. He’s out scouting Blue Base while I was-“

“Seriously, what kind stupid name is Sarge?” Grif asked, cutting him off. It was then Simmons noticed they were no longer alone, and he tried to gesture for him to shut the fuck up, but the newest private continued, “Don’t tell me we all get stupid nicknames. Because in that case, you’re still stuck with Kissass.” Then he turned around and saw the red armored Sergeant in the doorway that had heard it all.

Well, Sarge most definitely came up with a nickname for Grif. Dirtbag. Almost better than Fatass.

So maybe Grif’s first days in Blood Gulch were not the best. Sarge gave him what he called a ‘warm welcome’, the warmth due to being forced to run laps around the canyon for a whole hour.

But, well, Simmons had the suspicion Grif liked the place a whole lot more than his previous outpost.

And, you know, Blood Gulch was definitely not Basic.

**Author's Note:**

> How much fun did I have writing this piece? Fact: a lot of fun.
> 
> I enjoyed season 14, really, but I just really liked those two small sentences describing Grif’s life before Blood Gulch, so I decided to go with fuck it, and make this piece.
> 
> So, I know I have two incomplete stories that should be updated. My explanation for this is simple that I struggled to write down the words for the next chapters, and when this happens, I always work on my many ideas for one-shots to avoid it developing into a writer’s block. But then I got so invested in this story that I just had to finish it. So don’t worry – there will be updates soon.
> 
> General info note: English is not my native language, and I apologize for the grammar mistakes that I didn’t catch. Also, I am horrible at spotting typos, so please forgive me.
> 
> Also; wanna see my random RvB doodles and musings, as well as very small grimmons ficlets and my weird thoughts in general? I’m riathedreamer on tumblr. More info on my AO3 profile.


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